


Just a Day in the Fundamentally Fucked Life of John Murphy

by finnickodead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Murphy's life is one disaster after another, and fuck the mountain men, he hates group activities, he's expecting death and would welcome it with open arms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnickodead/pseuds/finnickodead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy finds himself on patrol with a miserable asshole of a guard, a tonne of reapers and a ditch that could pass for a basic sewage system. (Murphamy, if you squint).  There is swearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Day in the Fundamentally Fucked Life of John Murphy

     Murphy’s trousers are sodden right through to his freezing arse and if that wasn’t bad enough he’s caked in mud again. He’s been crouching in this _goddamn_ ditch since dawn with nothing but a miserable guard and a dodgy radio frequency for company. The cramp that started in the finger resting on the trigger of his gun has travelled all the way to his shoulder and even if he wanted to move his hand from his gun to stretch it out he doesn’t think he could without emitting a _humiliating_ wail of pain. If this is the core element of teamwork then they can shove their bloody ‘group activities’ somewhere the sun don’t shine. The guard hasn’t said a word to him since they settled in the mulch just before sunrise and Murphy’s throat feels rough, as though thousands of splinters have accumulated there, he’s not sure his vocal chords would actually work anymore. He’s not willing to test them out though. There are Reapers ten feet above him and he doesn’t really want to die today. To die in a foot of mud next to a guy whose name he can’t remember, and in desperate need of a piss, is no way to go.

     For half the morning Murphy had been hoping for someone to come through on the glitchy radio, to hear a human voice but for two hours now he’s been muttering a silent prayer that nobody has anything important to say at all, least of all to the two that got stationed in a shitty little ditch. Any sound would surely alert the Reapers, as thick as they may be. Murphy and his companion have exchanged a couple of glances that basically translate to  
  
“what the fuck do we do now”  
  
     but nothing more.  
  
     Murphy is unsure of how many Reapers they would be up against exactly, there could be an entire army up there for all he knows, and so to shoot now could result in two completely pointless deaths. So they sit tight, shiver as quietly as possible and hope upon hope that no Reaper decides to piss on them.

     Murphy had his suspicions about the guard he was paired with from the off but when the guy starts shuffling up the steep slope of the ditch he mentally confirms that he was stationed with a nutcase. Murphy makes an attempt to grab at the guys boot but he kicks out and military issue steel capped leather makes contact with human skull and Murphy hears his own head make a sickening crunch. He curses him in a half whisper and claps his hand over his mouth, swearing further at his own mistake. The guy has scaled the slope by now and is hoisting his own weight to his feet; he makes what Murphy guesses is an attempt at some heroic exclamation. There’s uproar, automatic gunfire, a scream and then eerie silence. Murphy is halfway up the slope, blinded a little by the blood that’s erupted from the wound that asshole’s boot left, when the silence falls and he makes the decision to lie there and assess the situation before making his own appearance. Make no mistake, Murphy is not a coward, but when he hears the rip of a human limb being torn from its body it’s safe to say that he does start to panic a little. He’s not an official guard for Camp Jaha either so he’s not completely familiar with their conduct, but he’s pretty certain they don’t tear the limbs from their enemies. When the remains of his former companion is tossed over his head and crumples into the ditch below he makes his decision fairly quickly and that decision is to run, fairly quickly. He loosens his grip on the slope and slides swiftly to the base of the ditch where he finds himself face to mutilated face with his lost companion. He ducks momentarily to close what’s left of the guy’s eyes.  
  
  Martin.   
  
  His name had been Martin.

     There’s a shout from above and suddenly Murphy is struck back into the here and now and propels himself up the other side of the ditch. The gang of reapers are throwing themselves down behind him, stepping on and over Martin in attempt to reach their new prey. Murphy isn’t a coward but he’s not a hero either. He runs as fast as his freezing arse and cramped up legs will allow him, which, when his veins are bursting with adrenaline, is _pretty fucking fast_. They’re on his tail and casting a look back he’s surprised that their loping gait allows them such speed. What he wasn’t expecting this morning when he was called from breakfast to do patrol duty was to be surrounded by monsters, so when one of the leaps out from behind a tree just in front of him he maybe screams a bit but he’s not about to admit it. What he really, really wasn’t expecting was to recognise the Reaper.  
  
     For a moment Murphy stands stock still and he’s trying to work out where he recognises the face behind the scars from. The creature is inching forward, eyes dead and lifeless, and then it hits Murphy like a kick to the abdomen. The last time he saw the guy who’d become this monster was from behind bars, this was the grounder who’d torn his fingernails from their beds and carved valleys in his face. And so Murphy does not hesitate further, he shoots the reaper in the gut, kicks his knees from underneath him and spits in his contorted face. And then he runs again, gun swinging wildly. As he runs he fumbles with the radio but the frequency is still jammed and Murphy curses the mountain men aloud, because he knows they would probably want this but it’s due to their twisted survival instincts that he’s about to die. So, _fuck_ ‘em.

     The last thing he really remembers is reaching a lake, _a fucking lake_ , and making a lot of obscene gesticulations towards the inanimate body of water. It isn’t like it had chosen to be there as such but he felt he had to pass off the blame onto something.   
  
  The lake didn’t seem to mind.   
  
     He also remembers turning around to face the oncoming stampede of Reapers, shooting at them half-heartedly and accepting that he was going to die. He is going to have his limbs ripped from his body and he is going to scream a lot because it is going to be agony. He hadn’t realised quite how much his head wound is bleeding until it starts dripping into his eyes and from his nose. After a few moments he gives into the blackness. He didn’t remember anything else just sudden a peace washing over him like persistent waves; he may have given in to the need to piss.  
  
-  
  
     After accepting imminent death and everything going black you wouldn’t generally expect to wake up again. As Murphy re-entered a state on consciousness he declared himself an exception to the rule, the rule being the inevitability of death. He’d expected to be strung up on a log, a rough bag over his face, hands bound so tightly there was a certain possibility that they would simply drop off. His reality was a much pleasanter state of affairs. That was unusual for Murphy so he revelled in it for a quiet moment. Then all at once his senses came rushing back and the noise of the camp swamped his ears and the brightness of the med bay’s fluorescent lighting flooded his eyes, his brain, blinding him momentarily. His sense that someone was watching him snuck back as well. Bellamy stood in the doorway and Murphy lifted himself up on his elbows and nodded in his direction, it made his head swim but he was thankful.  
  
     John Murphy had never been saved before, he’d never been worth it, he was expendable.  
  
     Bellamy nodded back, a silent recognition of a silent act of gratitude.  
  
“How’d you find me?”  
  
     was what Murphy had tried to say but it was far croakier than he’d intended.  
  
     Bellamy got the message though.  
  
“We heard a lot of gun fire, shouting, you weren’t subtle really. Not difficult to find y’know, especially when you were screaming ‘come ‘n get me you fuckers’ at the top of your voice over and over again.”  
  
     Murphy nodded, no wonder his voice was so hoarse and scratchy.  
  
“Did ya kill ‘em?”  
  
“Nah, not all of ‘em. Clarke thinks she can save ‘em”  
  
     Murphy groaned, Clarke thought she could save everyone.  
  
     He lay back down into the pillows with a sigh.  
  
“Then I’ll kill ‘em.”  
  
     Bellamy laughed at that.   
  
     It made Murphy proud, to make someone laugh rather than make someone shout. Rather than make someone grab you by the collar and want to beat you senseless. He smirked a little bit.   
  
     And then his face fell and he turned on his side to face the door properly.  
  
“Did you find the other guy? Martin?”  
  
     Bellamy shrugged solemnly.  
  
“What was left of him, yeah. We buried him just outside the fence, with the others.”  
  
     Murphy swallowed loudly and sighed.  
  
“Dunno if he was mad as shit or brave as hell.”  
  
“The two go hand in hand in this world, Murphy.”  
  
     He was awash with humiliation.  
  
“I wasn’t either, I ran.”  
  
     Bellamy looked him dead in the eye and Murphy tried desperately to avoid his gaze.  
  
“And look which one of you is still alive.”  
  
     That was true. He was very much alive. He knew that because one of the engineers, Wick, had made this machine that meant he had to have sticky pads on his chest and it was next to him beating in time with his heart.  
  
     Murphy nodded again, it made him feel sea sick. He turned slowly back to stare at the ceiling. He touched his head gingerly. There was some kind of dressing on it. No one had washed his hair though; it was matted with his own blood.   
  
     There was silence for a few minutes.   
  
     Murphy thought Bellamy had left until he piped up again.  
  
“Good job staying alive out there.”  
  
Murphy looked at him sideways, it made his eyes ache. Bellamy was looking at the floor.  
  
“Thanks for finding me.”  
  
     Bellamy’s eyes shot up, a look of disbelief on his face.  
  
     Murphy noticed he hadn’t come away unscathed either, there was a deep gash sliced into his face and he was holding his arm awkwardly.  
  
“Well, you’re one of us.”  
  
    Murphy cracked his dry lips when he smiled at that, it was a small smile and a small comment and Bellamy said it to everybody but it meant a lot to a person who’d never fit in.   
  
    To a pariah who’d never had a place to call home.  
  
    And he could almost see himself being one of them.   
  
  
       Almost.  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. Constructive criticism is very welcome, as are other comments and kudos :)


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